the kind of day
Started the new job today, the sort of thing that sounds interesting and civic-minded, but is merely ordinary: the good manager gone, no one understands the new equipment, the ‘we’ll muddle through somehow’ approach to training. A passage of time, of limited duration.
Come evening I tumble down to a local favored restaurant and grab a seat at the bar, put in an order for the special. I’ve had the menu ten times over and it’s good, but the specials rarely stick around for more than the night and are better. She brings the water, brings the tea, and the pintucks in her orange shirt send me back to my book of short stories, which in turn brings me to wonder why anyone is bothering to write novels, when no one has time to read them. Maybe in a hundred years, when the dust has settled in the pages and critics croon at the resurrected quaintness; at present it’s maddening.
The evening keeps moving in, leaving the cap off the toothpaste and crumbs in the bed.